Chapter 12 · Don't Say My Name

I can still hear him through the rubble.

Not his footsteps. His breathing. That wet, raspy sound he makes when he's been running and he's close to getting what he wants. My ribs lock up. The silver collar I ripped off is still smoking in the dirt three feet away, and my throat's raw where it burned through skin.

I need to move. The tunnel behind me is half-collapsed, and the exit's twenty yards ahead, but my legs won't work. Because I know that sound. I know what comes after.

"Baby."

There it is.

My spine goes rigid. He's not shouting. He's using that voice. The one he'd use after he unlocked the basement door, after I'd been good, after I promised I wouldn't run again. Soft. Almost sweet. Like he's calling a dog.

"I know you can hear me."

I force myself up. My claws are still out—half-shifted, stuck between human and wolf because I can't finish it, can't let go all the way. Cain said I'd learn control. He was wrong. I don't have control.